


Lost to Ashes

by wednesdays



Series: Hell Fire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Angst, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demons, Going to Hell, Hellhounds, I am a HORRIBLE PERSON, M/M, POV Second Person, Supernatural Elements, weyhey for derek's point of view, wow this is probably sadder than the original
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdays/pseuds/wednesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Sometimes, you think in specific senses.)</p><p>(Sometimes, you think in Stiles.)</p><p> </p><p>or, <i>"Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses."</i></p><p> </p><p>(Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/910248">Gone to Blazes</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> alternative quote: “Lose your mind and come to your senses.” ― Frederick S. Perls
> 
> this probably shouldn't be read as a stand-alone, as you probably won't understand some aspects of the story without reading [Gone to Blazes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/910248) first.
> 
> sorry this took so long lmao i couldn't concentrate on it and i forced myself to sit down and finish it today so sorry if it seems a little forced
> 
> sequel suggested/prompted by [PrincezzShell101](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincezzShell101/pseuds/PrincezzShell101) so thanks, fellow angst lover!
> 
> hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> (quote in the summary by Lao Tzu)

Sometimes, you think in scent.  
  
Sometimes, you remember blue as the salty air of the cerulean sky at the beach you went to as a teenager; your favorite jacket as thick leather and worn cologne and blood; the library as old, rotting paper and the potent scent of knowledge.  
  
(Sometimes, you sit in the old Hale house and think in spicy perfume and the sweet carbon dioxide of the people you love and the warm, clean citrus scent of pack, of family.  
  
All you can smell is smoke and ash and regret.)  
  
It doesn't really bother you to think in scents, as it's just another born instinct. You connect scents to memories and places and people, and it helps to recollect them when the time calls for it.  
  
You try to teach your betas similar techniques, but it proves difficult; bitten Were's have a more difficult time attuning their senses to their instincts.  
  
Sometimes, you think in specific scents.  
  
(Sometimes, you think in Stiles.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
You've just come back to Beacon Hills (god, you're _back_ ) because Laura never called back and warned you before she left New York that whatever she was doing could be dangerous and now you're back to where it all began and Laura's dead she's _dead_ and you don't know what to do and why you're still a beta and who the new alpha is--  
  
And there are people in your territory.  
  
There's another _werewolf_ on your land, as well as someone distinctly human.  
  
You follow the scent -- you guess they're teenage boys, from the thick scent of junk food and excessive cheap body spray -- and find the suspicious people. They _are_ teenage boys-- both tall and gangly, one with floppy dark hair and the other with short cropped brunet hair. The one with the floppy hair is crouched on the ground, hands swiping the dead leaves, while the other one chatters to his companion.  
  
The one crouching is the werewolf, you think. His scent is odd, thought, as if he's not fully transformed yet. Judging by the faint wheeze of his breath, he's asthmatic. It makes sense; you found an inhaler near the place you were tracking the Alpha.  
  
You notice the one standing notice you, large eyes widening as he smacks the shoulder of his friend, who shoots up and stares at you. You walk a little closer, demanding why they're on your property. They both look guilty, but plead innocence.  
  
You're caught by surprise when you catch a strange, achingly familiar scent coming off one of the boys. It's warm and citrusy, more natural than the artificial scent both boys are wearing. You can't help but lean a little closer, inhaling greedily as the floppy haired young Were makes excuses.  
  
It's the human, the teenaged stranger with the large brown eyes and the sharp face and the short cropped hair, you find, that smells like home.  
You shake off the scent and toss the wolf's inhaler at him, walking away as soon as you can. You hear them whisper amongst themselves, but you can barely keep your stride straight, let alone listen to anything they're saying.  
  
(When you stumble back into the Hale house, it's all you can do to not rush back and claim the boy's skin for yourself.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sometimes, you think in touch.  
  
Sometimes, you remember your sisters as playful swipes with new claws and loving hair ruffles; your car as smooth leather and a slightly rough steering wheel and the hot ebony metal of the exterior; the bar as cold, wet glasses and bruised knuckles.  
  
(Sometimes you think in Stiles.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
So you're paralyzed.  
  
You're paralyzed, lying on the cold ground of the police station, surrounded by the scent of coffee and death and blood and fear; completely at the mercy of a batshit insane teenager with a vendetta, controlling the other batshit insane teenager with a scaly problem. You're useless and vulnerable and you can barely breathe, let alone try to move.  
  
You're paralyzed, and it's one of the worst feelings ever.  
  
You find yourself busy thinking of some kind of escape, any kind of escape; too busy to really notice the conversation going on around you. You faintly hear batshit insane teenager number one monologuing, and Stiles back-sassing him like the absolute idiot he is, but otherwise you don't really notice anything until there's a heavy, bony teenager dropped onto your body.  
  
You huff, breath punched right out of your lungs. It takes you less than three seconds to realize it's Stiles draped over your body. He's the only one not accounted for standing, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by the painfully familiar citrus scent that you've just forced yourself to become accustomed to.  
  
He's skinny and bony, all sharp angles digging into your body. His head is on your chest, your legs nearly crushed by his own.  
  
It's strange; you've never really been in any intimate situations like this since-- for a long time. You haven't been physically this close to anyone, especially not someone like Stiles.  
  
Coming back to your senses, you demand he be taken off of you. Batshit insane teenager number one makes some snarky remark about the two of them making a good pair, and you can _feel_ Stiles' blush burning through your shirt, hot and heady.  
  
(You think, if you were able to move, you'd have done something you would have regretted.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sometimes, you think in sounds.  
  
Sometimes, you remember red as the scream of a kettle and ear-shattering words and the siren of a firetruck; your loft as muted pipes running and the creak of the circular stairs and the faint honking of horns from below; the hospital as crying women and screaming fathers and whispered antidotes.  
  
(Sometimes, you think in Stiles.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
You're in the loft, trying to find ways to save the stolen members of your pack, and, despite your grudging appreciation for him, you're getting increasingly more annoyed with every sarcastic comment coming out of Stiles' mouth.  
  
His voice is a lilting cross between a tenor and a baritone, sometimes fairly high, sometimes surprisingly low for a teenage boy who probably just finished going through his first stage of puberty. His intonation is sharp; enunciation messy.  
  
You want to roll your eyes when he shows you how "wrong" you are, showing you the three inches of space you couldn't possibly punch through. His hand can't wrap fully around your wrist, but you can still feel the heat from his hand seeping through your skin as he babbles on.  
  
When he lets go, you prove your point by punching his hand. You hear it slap against the table next to you; hear the spike in his heartbeat; the cut off whimper that falls from his lips. He stumbles away to gather himself in the corner for a minute, and you listen to the shuffle of his steps, the gasping whine of his breath.  
  
(You force yourself to not go and kiss his wounds.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sometimes, you think in taste.  
  
Sometimes, you remember yellow as the sour, tangy candy your grandmother always used to give you when your mother wasn't looking; your apartment in New York as the air permeated by the lemon scented floor cleaner your sister insisted on using every week; the high school as chalk dust and bitter perfume.  
  
(Sometimes, you think in Stiles.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
You have Stiles pressed to his own bed, peppering kisses wherever you can reach. His bare skin is hot against your own, pale and freckled and _just for you_. He's flushed all the way down his chest; breathing heavily as you push farther inside him.  
  
The wolf inside you threatens to surface, wanting to take and take and _take_ , even though you're greedy enough as it is. You grip his thin sides, forcing your claws to retract as you press a kiss to Stiles' throat.  
  
He tastes like heat and sweat and sex, intoxicating and overwhelming. You run your tongue up to his jaw and he moans lightly, baring his neck further, to your pleasure. His arms wrap around your shoulders and you thrust in harder, leaning up to kiss his lips and swallow his moans.  
  
(When you kiss his cheeks and taste salt, you write it off as sweat.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
Mostly, you think in sight.  
  
Most of the time, you remember green as the lush, bright leaves and grass of the woods surrounding your old home; the police station as stark white paper work and grim faces and the light reflected off handcuffs; your family as loving smiles and grey headstones.  
  
(Mostly, you think in Stiles.)  
  
  
*  
  
  
You can't see the claws that rip Stiles apart.  
  
You can faintly see the outlines of the hellhounds that have been roaming the town, which is enough to attack, but you cannot see their fur or their teeth or their claws.  
  
You can't see the claws that tear Stiles apart.  
  
The demon that's controlling the hounds disappears in a flash of fire, little more than smoke in the wind, a faint laugh dancing in your ears. Scott's screaming, hands covered in slick black blood, tears streaming down his face as he kneels weakly in the dirt.  
  
You're _howling_.  
  
Stiles doesn't scream; doesn't struggle.  
  
(There's a deep, deep slash across his chest, weeping bright red blood. Two lines down his neck, four dug deep into his shoulder. His plaid shirt is torn to shreds, the left thigh of his pants ripped apart. His beautiful, pale skin is destroyed; lithe body mangled beyond belief.)  
  
You're running, stumbling. You're dropped onto your knees, watching helplessly as Stiles _dies_. He's convulsing when you take him in your arms, breath shallow and light.  
  
"Stiles, Stiles--" you manage to get out, grabbing his face and tilting it towards you. Blood drips down his chin, eyes wide and unfocused as he gasps for air. You can't help but try to drain his pain, ignoring the way your arm throbs in favor of watching Stiles' eyes. "Stiles, no, _please_ , Stiles--"  
  
You feel when Stiles dies.  
  
You hear his heart fail, limbs falling limp in your grasp. His eyes don't move from yours, all thick lashes and a blank gaze. Your mouth still tastes like him; like salt and citrus and home.  
  
You're _howling_.  
  
You don't feel when Scott takes Stiles from your grasp, gasping and crying and clutching his best friend to his chest. You don't feel Isaac's hand touching your shoulder from wherever he came from. You don't feel when Cora kneels beside you and cries into your shirt, clutching your skin and sobbing.  
  
All you can feel is the howl tearing out of your throat, painful and low and full of despair and sadness and--  
  
The sky looks beautiful.  
  
  
*  
  
  
(Always, you think of Stiles.)

**Author's Note:**

> the last thing derek said to stiles was "stiles" ✿◕ ‿ ◕✿  
> the last thing stiles said to derek was "derek" ❀◕ ‿ ◕❀  
> i am an asshole (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ
> 
>    
> [tumblr](http://scottmccalliente.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> i'd love feedback!


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